


The Place Where I Am Going

by BrighteyedJill



Series: In My Master's House 'Verse [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Drug Use, M/M, Master/Slave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-13
Updated: 2011-10-13
Packaged: 2017-11-11 01:29:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/472966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/pseuds/BrighteyedJill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade tries to help John adjust to life in the Holmes household as he reflects on the circumstances that brought him there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** present day slave AU, so slavery and inherent consent issues therein, drug use and abuse, discussions of crime and death, including domestic abuse  
>  **Author’s note:** Part of the [My Master’s House](http://brighteyed-jill.livejournal.com/98015.html) universe. If you haven’t read prior stories, here’s all you need to know: It’s a modern day slave AU. John belongs to Sherlock, Lestrade belongs to Mycroft, and both the Holmses are important personages in the British Empire.  
>  **Other note:** Many thanks to [](http://jaune-chat.livejournal.com/profile)[**jaune_chat**](http://jaune-chat.livejournal.com/) for her mad beta skills, [](http://morganstuart.livejournal.com/profile)[**morganstuart**](http://morganstuart.livejournal.com/) for her service as Lestrade consultant extraordinaire, and [](http://blue-eyed-1987.livejournal.com/profile)[**blue_eyed_1987**](http://blue-eyed-1987.livejournal.com/) for ironing out my Americanisms. Also, there is no actual sex in this installment. I apologize.  
> 

“It’s not what I’d call intuitive,” John said. “What exactly am I supposed to do?”

“Pull out the chair for him,” Lestrade said. He walked a few places down the lengthy banquet table, and slid out one of the heavy wooden monstrosities that passed for chairs. “Seat assignments will be made by Wednesday, so you’ll have plenty of time to memorize Lord Sherlock’s place.”

“And then I just stand there looking foolish?”

“That’s up to you, I suppose, though I don’t think Lord Sherlock’s fond of foolish, in general.” Lestrade pushed the chair back into precise alignment with its fellows. “Personal slaves can kneel by their masters, or stand against the wall. Just don’t get in the table slaves’ way. They tend to have short tempers and sharp elbows.”

“Right.” John managed only a fleeting attempt at a smile, and Lestrade could see the strain in it. In fact, John hadn’t looked very happy since the topic of this banquet had first come up at evening muster yesterday.

“You’ll be fine,” Lestrade said. “These formal occasions have a lot of rules, but they’re predictable, at least. That’s more than I can say for a day with Lord Sherlock.”

That did earn a tired smile, at least. “Tell me I’m not the only one who has to suffer through this.”

“Sadly, no. Some of the others will be standing in for guests who didn’t bring their own personal slaves. And I’ll be on duty, of course.” Lestrade pointed to the stretch of wall behind the head table, which was free of furniture, wall hangings, and other decorations. “There. Lord Mycroft likes me to stand so I can observe the room. There’s a lot to see at a formal banquet like this: who’s talking to which seat-mates, who brought their own personal slave and how they’re being treated, who’s drinking and eating what—“

“Is all of that really necessary?”

Lestrade nodded. He’d asked Mycroft the same question, once, and had received a pitying look and an extensive lecture. “Two weeks ago Mycroft noticed Lady Cecin-Barry was only pretending to drink her wine, so he wrote to the Empress about adjusting her succession plans for the nobility in the Lake District. It’s all important to someone.”

“Yes, alright,” John said slowly. He seemed to be re-calibrating his assumptions about the dinner. If all the explanation he’d received so far was from Sherlock, Lestrade wasn’t surprised that reality would be an adjustment.

“You should try to convince Sherlock to attend dinner on Tuesday, when Mycroft’s dining with those military chaps,” Lestrade said. “It would be good practice attending to your duties while paying attention to the rest of the room. Plus then I’d have some company in my role as wallflower.”

“I doubt Sherlock is too keen on attending more formal dinners than he has to.”

“No, you’re right there,” Lestrade said. “Once, to get out of attending a cocktail party at the Czech Embassy, he took— “ He snapped his mouth closed on the last part of that sentence. “Anyway. Yes, he’s not much one for formal social occasions.”

“Why do you do that? Leave off in the middle of a story?” John’s expression hardened. “Is it a matter of Imperial security? Do I not have the clearance to hear about Sherlock’s grand escapades in shirking?”

“It’s not— ” Lestrade scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Do I ask you about Afghanistan?”

“No,” John said, but he didn’t look in the least chagrined.

“No. Please do me the courtesy of leaving this alone, then.”

“Alright,” he said reasonably enough, though Lestrade doubted this was the last time John would ask about his past.

“So.” Lestrade tapped his hands against the back of the chair he’d been gripping. “What do you do if another slave addresses you?”

“Ignore him? Answer back? I—No I have no idea.” John threw himself into the nearest chair, nudging out of its neat alignment. “Aren’t I supposed to be here for Sherlock? Why do these other people matter?”

“Oh, John,” Lestrade chuckled. He strolled around the table and took the seat opposite John. “Sherlock’s from one of the most important families in the Empire, and he’s done something out of character.”

“And what’s that?”

“He acquired you.” Lestrade watched John’s eyes go wide, then narrow in thought. “Very first slave he’s ever owned. Everyone’s wondering what that means. Is he taking up the mantle of noble responsibility his brother’s been trying to impose for years? Is he preparing for a power play against Lord Mycroft? Is he under the thrall of some smouldering temptress planted by an enemy?”

“Oh yes, it’s that last one, I’m sure of it.”

“They’re going to be watching both of you,” Lestrade warned. He didn’t envy John the scrutiny. He’d hated his first few weeks being seen in public with Mycroft. “And you should be watching them. It’s all interconnected. The way two slaves interact can have implications for their masters. A slave might try to get information out of you, or ask you for a favour. Add in possible interactions with other masters and it all gets rather complicated.”

“I’m starting to appreciate why Sherlock tries to avoid these things.” John rubbed a hand against his forehead. “How do you memorize all this etiquette?”

“I can’t say I had an easy time of it at first,” Lestrade said. “But I had to learn it, and so I did. It’s not as bad as all that. I know you’ve memorized the name of all the bones in the human body, and the symptoms of any STD an Imperial soldier could pick up in the Eastern colonies, and all sorts of other rot, so just think of this room as an organism made up of power and influence. Each part plays its role. Think you can handle that?

“You have got a pretty keen grasp on all this political bollocks.” John leaned back in his chair. “It’s impressive.”

“That’s Mycroft’s influence, that is.” Lestrade smiled, thinking how frequently Mycroft despaired of his lack of capacity for political intrigue. “I never was, before.”

John was watching him with an appraising look. “You’re rather fond of him, aren’t you?”

“He’s my master, John,” Lestrade muttered.

“Well, all the same, one hardly thinks a man could master you if you didn’t mean him to.”

Lestrade surprised himself by barking out a laugh. “That’s a rather romantic notion, John. We’ve both of us been more than lucky in our circumstances. Not every slave can boast the same. But… Thank you.”  
\--

_  
“I believe I have the situation under control, Detective Sergeant,” Dimmock said stiffly._

_“Of course.” Lestrade slid his notebook into his coat pocket and forced a polite nod. Never mind he’d been called out of his bed in the middle of night to come here. The missing man, Ian Monkford, must have some sort of important connections for Dimmock to be interested._

_With Dimmock’s promotion to detective inspector barely a month behind him, Dimmock didn’t have much seniority on Lestrade. However, since rumours had begun to circulate about the promotion being the work of his uncle, a minor Lord who worked in city administration, Dimmock had been throwing his weight around rather ostentatiously, in a misguided attempt to prove his fitness for the position._

_Lestrade turned away from the blood-spattered couch and the missing man’s wife and left the field to Dimmock. The man was a good enough colleague, if a bit overly tenacious in clinging to his theories. Lestrade figured that after a few months, when Dimmock realized no one was going to take away his promotion, he’d mellow. Perhaps then Lestrade would get a shot at a promotion, himself._

_While Dimmock talked to the probably-widow, Lestrade slipped away to the back room, where a forensics technician was taking samples from the sticky puddle of blood on the kitchen tiles. A thin young woman in a long slip sat on a chair in the corner with her arms wrapped around herself. She had her eyes fixed on the wall, and didn’t speak to or acknowledge any of the Met officers who passed. She didn’t look up when Lestrade entered, or when he slipped back out._

_Lestrade headed back down the flat’s long hallway, which was lined with elaborate wall sconces, and spotted the patrolman who’d been first on the scene. Lestrade searched his memory for the man’s name. “Gillies.” He hooked a thumb toward the kitchen. “Whose slave?”_

_“Monkford’s, I gather.”_

_“Monkford’s?”_

_“Yeah.” Gillies shrugged. “A renter. From one’a them dodgy companies caters to the nouveau riche, figurin out leases from Lords what don’t need all they got. Bloody business, if you ask me. Some class of people ain’t fit to own a human being.”_

_“Yeah,” Lestrade said absently. He could picture Monkford, with a flash apartment like this, loving the idea of having a slave on his arm. A social climber, then. “You get her name?”_

_“Whose?” Gillies looked puzzled._

_“The slave.”_

_“Oh. No. Didn’t catch it.”_

_Didn’t ask, more like, Lestrade thought, but he thanked Gillies anyway and went back to the kitchen._

_The girl noticed his return this time. She drew her feet up off the floor, away from the sluggishly spreading pool of blood, and hugged them to her chest._

_”Miss?” Lestrade stepped toward her with his hands open and outstretched. “You’ll need to answer some questions.”_

_Though Lestrade couldn’t own slaves himself—that was the exclusive purview of Imperial Lords and Ladies—he’d handled his fair share. The High Commissioner had purchased scores of contracted slaves for use within the Met; they carried out everything from administrative work to car maintenance. Lestrade had never availed himself of any of the so-called comfort slaves some stations kept for officers who worked long hours away from home, but he’d often cultivated allies among the slaves who handled administrative functions. It didn’t hurt to have someone who liked you handling the waiting list for DNA testing._

_“Miss?” Closer now, and in the orange-y city light pouring in through the window, Lestrade could see dark bruises beneath the girl’s plastic collar, as if she’d been pulled around by it. “What’s your name?”_

_“Ava,” she said, in a voice too hoarse for her youth and beauty._

_“That’s a pretty name,” Lestrade said._

_The girl shivered and ducked her head away._

_“Come on.” Lestrade held out his hand, and Ava’s gaze swung to focus on it. Lestrade kept his voice firm and full of command. “Come here, please.”_

_After a moment’s hesitation, Ava stood and put her hand in Lestrade’s. ”Good girl,” he said. She stepped daintily past the puddle of blood and let Lestrade lead her to the kitchen table._

_“Now, I’m going to ask questions, and you shake your head yes or no, alright?”_

_She nodded._

_“Are you hurt?”_

_She shook her head: no._

_“Did you see how this blood got here?”_

_She shook her head again._

_“Do you know where Ian Monkford is?”_

_Another shake._

_Lestrade pulled his notebook from his pocket and scribbled a note, mostly to busy his hands, but a bit to save himself looking into Ava’s empty eyes. He asked, “Did you see him today?”_

_Head shake._

_“Last night?”_

_She nodded._

_“How long have you been staying with the Monkfords?”_

_“Since the autumn,” she said softly._

_“As long as that?”_

_“Yes. Don’t know how long a lease he signed.”_

_The north country, Lestrade thought, from her accent. He wondered how she’d come to slavery. Seemed a bit young for a convicted criminal. Family debt, perhaps. “How long have you had that collar?”_

_“Less’n a week,” she said. When Lestrade didn’t scold her, she kept talking. “Had a lovely jewelled one, I did, but he took it off me.”_

_“What did he do with it?”_

_“Hocked it,” she leaned forward and pitched her voice lower. “There was never enough money.”_

_“There’s more blood? Well, that’s overdoing it a bit, would you say?” A tall man in a long black coat swept into the room and stopped just short of the edge of the drying puddle of blood. Lestrade didn’t recognize the man’s unruly black hair or elegant cheekbones, but he could have been another inspector, or perhaps some kind of Imperial observer. The officers at the door wouldn’t have let him in if he didn’t have a right to be here. “Amateurs, every one,” the man muttered._

_Ava shrank back in her chair, and Lestrade stood up, positioning himself a bit in front of where she sat. “Do you mind? I’m talking to a witness.”_

_Dimmock had followed the man in, and now stood with his hands shoved into coat pockets. “This is Charles,” he muttered. No last name, so not an official personage. The way Dimmock was turned resolutely away, Lestrade half expected this bloke was some sort of chum, or lover, maybe, who’d asked to tag along._

_“Charles Butler.” The man pulled off a leather glove and extended a hand. “You must be DS Lestrade.”_

_“Yes. How did you—?”_

_“It’s obvious,” Charles said. “Your— ”_

_“What did the slave have to say?” Dimmock interrupted._

_“_ Ava _said that Monkford’s held her contract for a few months, but money had been getting tight recently.”_

_“He had debts,” Dimmock said._

_“Yes, that much is obvious.” Charles walked carefully along the perimeter of the bloodied section of the floor. “The questions is where has he fled to?”_

_“Fled to?” Lestrade frowned. “Not far, bleeding like he must have been.”_

_“Hm, no.” Charles abandoned his contemplation of the floor and gave Lestrade a condescending smile. “Have your lab test the blood. This isn’t a murder. It’s insurance fraud.” The man stormed out with a swirl of coat and a negligent slamming of the door._

_Dimmock didn’t meet Lestrade’s eyes, but headed right out of out the kitchen._

_Lestrade pursued him. “Who was that?” he asked, trying to keep the edge of incredulity out of his voice._

_“Found him at an underground boxing hall when I was working the Wently case.” Dimmock heaved a sigh. “Bit of a prat, but he’s been damn useful on a few cases. If he says test the blood, you should do it.”_

_“Is Charles Butler his real name?”_

_“I’ve not made any effort to find out,” Dimmock said sharply. “And if you’re clever, you won’t either.”_

_When the results came back from the lab they revealed the blood had been frozen and thawed. Two hours later, Lestrade received a text:_ Monkford in Columbia. You’re welcome. -CB _  
\--_

_“The painting’s a fake. It has to be.”_

_“I’m busy, Charles.” Lestrade signed another report and tossed it on the “mostly done” pile. “I do in fact have duties to perform that don’t involve being an audience for your ego.”_

_“More now that you’re a DI.” Charles leaned a hip on the desk, effectively blocking out the light by which Lestrade was reading. “I daresay any assistance I offered on that case with Lord Robert St. Simon might have been to your advantage.”_

_“As might my decade or so of hard work. If you’ve come to offer your congratulations, do it and get out.” He swatted at Charles with the papers he was holding, and the man retreated from the desk to prowl the room._

_“Don’t you see, that painting is why the man was murdered!”_

_“Experts have verified that painting,” Lestrade explained, though he knew Charles hated to hear facts repeated. “Experts who actually know things about art history and painting technique, who provide the kind of testimony that holds up in a courtroom.”_

_“I must talk to the gallery staff who moved the painting,” Charles muttered._

_“Fine.” Lestrade signed the next report, and onto the pile it went. “All you have to do is get an invitation to the Czech ambassador’s cocktail party. They’re not letting anyone into that Embassy until after the ambassador and her friends have had their little soiree and they’ve done the unveiling.”_

_“What? No, how interminably dull.”_

_“Not to mention not open to commoners.” Lestrade finally looked up from his paperwork to see Charles gazing intently at the blank wall, hands folded under his chin. “Also, Charles, the murder didn’t even take place at the gallery_ or _the Embassy.”_

_“No, a cocktail party is out of the question,” Charles said, as if he hadn’t heard. “I’ll find out another way.” A beep from his phone distracted him again._

_Lestrade returned his attention to his paperwork, until he realized his office had been silent for a worryingly long time. He glanced up to see Charles leaning against the wall with the phone in both hands, grinning down at him._

_“If I told you I knew where the murderer was hiding would you come?” Charles asked._

_“Please tell me this isn’t one of your hypothetical locations,” Lestrade said warily._

_Charles tucked his scarf around his throat and made for the door. “I recommend you bring a weapon.”_

_Later, as Lestrade tried to drag a freakishly tall assassin away from crushing Charles’s throat, he wondered if it would have been wiser to have given Charles the benefit of the doubt about that painting.  
\--_

_The morgue wasn’t the worst place to be on a Tuesday evening, Lestrade reflected, especially when it involved harassing Charles Butler as he examined a highly suspicious corpse of a recently deceased television star. It certainly beat paperwork. “Do you really never watch telly?” Lestrade asked. “Ever?”_

_“I watch nature documentaries,” Charles said. He pressed a finger against the skin of the dead woman’s forehead before straightening up. “She’s been poisoned.”_

_“That’s not what the toxicology report says.”_

_“Or you imbeciles don’t know what to look for. Let me see that.” Charles reached for the printout. His rolled sleeve caught on the edge of the counter and edged up his skinny arm._

_Lestrade’s eyes caught on the tiny pinprick holes in the thin skin of the inside of his elbow. His hand darted out to grab Charles’ wrist. Lestrade pushed the sleeve further up, revealing a sordid history of track marks written on Charles’ skin. He stared for a moment before he could speak. “What is this?”_

_“If one of the Empire’s finest doesn’t know, then—“_

_“What_ is _this? What have you done? Charles!”_

_“It’s not your concern.” Charles tried to free himself, but Lestrade held on._

_“How long?” Lestrade demanded._

_Charles kept his eyes on the dead body._

_“The whole time we’ve been working together?”_

_“This has nothing to do with the work.”_

_Lestrade dropped Charles’ arm and snatched back the tox report. “Get out.”_

_“Don’t be so squeamish. What I do on my own time has no bearing on the case I’m about to solve.” He held out his hand for the report, not bothering to hide evidence of his addiction. “Give that back.”_

_Lestrade felt the same calm come over him that he’d felt the first time a suspect had come at him with a knife and a murderous gleam in his eyes. He said, “Get out, Charles.”_

_“You can’t throw me out.” Charles’ mouth parted on a silent laugh, as if the idea that anyone could make him do anything was patently absurd._

_“I am throwing you out right now. I’ve allowed you in on cases because you clearly have a gift, and these victims deserve the best justice I can give them. But you are selfishly putting that in jeopardy.” He pulled the white sheet up over the body of the woman they’d been examining, as if to shield her from the argument. “I will not let you ruin yourself or anyone one else on my watch.” He strode over to the morgue door, pushed it open, and held it. “Get out. If you come back before you’re clean, I’ll arrest you myself.”_

_Charles, looking more shell-shocked than contrite, wandered out of the morgue, leaving Lestrade with a puzzling murder, a theory about poison, and a deeply unpleasant sick feeling simmering in his belly.  
\--_

_“It’s not a matter of whether he killed the sister, not really,” Lestrade said. “It doesn’t explain the mysterious music.” He looked up at the imposing outline of the club, but it offered no clues._

_“Nor will it,” said Charles, as he prodded a piece of alley trash with his foot. “Unless you allow me access to the evidence.”_

_“I can’t.” There hadn’t been any clues at all since a hysterical young Lady had turned up at the Yard two days ago. Lestrade didn’t know where else to turn. Still, he had no intention of giving Charles free rein. “It’s bad enough you show up at crime scenes. I can’t have you rooting through evidence storage.”_

_“Those moronic minions of yours are so used to seeing me around I doubt they’d notice,” Charles said, and began slowly pacing down the alley._

_“Not morons,” Lestrade said automatically. And the ‘minions’ had certainly noticed when Charles had abruptly stopped showing up at crime scenes six months ago. They’d never asked Lestrade about the lapse, but when Charles had returned, complaints about his caustic behaviour hadn’t been filed for a whole week. Lestrade considered, for a moment, telling him he’d been missed, then decided Charles had no need of an ego boost._

_“Alright,” Charles said, stopping in front of a banged-up skip. “Give me a leg up.”_

_Lestrade cupped his hands, which Charles used as a step to clamber in. “If the Imperial Advisors at the Met ever got wind of—“_

_“Yes, yes. Your precious career would come to an abrupt and inglorious end.” Charles stood up in the skip, holding an old shoe. He sniffed at it, frowned, tossed it over his shoulder, then regarded Lestrade placidly. “You’re not going to solve this without me.”_

_As much as it galled him, Lestrade suspected that statement was nothing more than the truth. “I did sometimes solve cases before you came along,” he said. But there was a girl’s life at stake here, and Lestrade’s pride was not so hard as to give up Charles’ help to soothe his ego._

_“No good.” Charles climbed out of the skip and brushed off his coat. “I’ll have to see the room.”_

_“Don’t you think we’ve tried that?” Lestrade asked. Charles waved a hand dismissively and set off down the alley. Lestrade pursued him around the corner. “It’s not so simple. You can’t barge into a clubhouse for members of the peerage and—“_

_Charles pushed open the front door of the club and walked in, bold as the polished brass door handles. “Charles!” Lestrade hissed. He took one step inside, and halted at the coolly inquisitive look of the desk attendant._

_For his part, Charles walked up to the front desk, and gave the girl there a charming smile. “Lord Sherlock Holmes. I’d like to engage room forty seven.”_

_“Of course, Lord Holmes.” The attendant entered something into her computer terminal. After a moment, in which Lestrade stood frozen by the door, she slid an old-fashioned brass key across the desk. “Shall I put the charges on your account?”_

_“Naturally,” Charles said. “Come along, Lestrade.” He picked up the key and swept toward the lift._

_Lestrade had little choice but to follow. Once the doors closed behind them, Lestrade grabbed Charles’ arm. “What are you doing? I should arrest you for impersonating a Lord.”_

_“If you were going to arrest me, you’d have done so long ago.” Charles shrugged free of Lestrade’s grip and straightened his coat. “Besides, on this occasion I’ve broken no laws.”_

_The lift pinged and the door slid open. Charles jumped out of the lift, examined the numbered signs, and took off down the left-hand corridor._

_Lestrade followed doggedly. “Charles, you just told that girl you were a Lord. More than that, you told her you’re the mad brother of the Lord whose territory includes the part of the city we’re standing in right now. What could—“_

_Charles whirled around so fast Lestrade almost ran into him. “I am not mad.”_

_Lestrade stared for a moment as he compared that statement to his accusations. “Your name isn’t Charles Butler, is it?”_

_Charles fixed his gaze somewhere on the wall behind Lestrade. “You never truly believed that it was.”_

_“You’re a Lord.”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Your brother is Mycroft Holmes.”_

_“Yes.”_

_The pieces of the world were merrily re-arranging themselves in Lestrade’s head. “You’re a Lord,” he said again._

_“Yes.” Charles was developing that patented disgusted sneer he adopted when someone was rapidly becoming tiresome. “And you should be glad I am, or you’d never get the evidence you need to solve this case.” He turned his back on Lestrade and continued his examination of the room numbers._

_Lestrade thought of the times he’d spoken rudely to “Charles,” threatened him with arrest, laid a hand on him. He’d never realized how close he’d been to bringing about his own ruin. He felt as if he’d seen a house cat morph into a lion before his eyes._

_“Are you coming?” came a sharp voice from the end of the hallway._

_Lestrade followed Lord Sherlock Holmes.  
\--_

_“I’m not the drugs squad,” Lestrade protested._

_“Listen, mate,” said the forensics tech. “It’s your murder, it’s your evidence.” He held out the clear evidence bag of white powder._

_Lestrade glanced at Sherlock, who seemed to be rifling through the dead man’s pockets. He was going to need supervising soon. “Fine,” Lestrade said._

_“Sign here.”_

_Lestrade took the clipboard, and was scribbling his signature at the bottom of the form when a tall figure appeared by his side. Lestrade shoved the evidence bag down into the bottom of his coat pocket._

_“The murder wasn’t about drugs,” Sherlock said._

_The tech gave Lestrade a “do you believe this guy” look, but Lestrade merely raised an eyebrow._

_He wasn’t afraid of provoking Holmes, not really, but he’d become more aware now, in everything he did, of showing a proper respect. Protocol did exist for dealing with aristocracy, of course. Free citizens didn’t live their lives in fear of the Empire. Well, citizens in other lands, perhaps. But in London, in the heart of the Empire, Lestrade should have been flattered to have such a powerful man take an interest in his work. He had nothing to hide. Nothing except the civilian ex-junkie nobleman who insisted on showing up to crime scenes while masquerading as a commoner._

_“So” Lestrade said. “Are you going to enlighten us?”._

_Sherlock paused for effect, and drew himself up to his full height to deliver his punchline. “The murder was committed to cover up the theft of secret government missile plans.”_

_Lestrade and the forensics tech exchanged a look. “You’re making that up,” Lestrade said. “You must be.”_

_“Shall I take you through it, then?” Sherlock asked. His self-satisfaction nearly shone through his pores._

_“Please.”_

_With a long-suffering sigh, Sherlock launched into another of his brilliant chains of logic._

_It wasn’t until Lestrade had sent out the bulletin describing the missing murderer, checked in at the morgue to get a report from the medical examiner, and drank two cups of very strong tea that he thought to check in the evidence he’d picked up at the scene. He rifled through the pockets of his coat, but found only his mobile. The drugs were gone._

_Lestrade didn’t remember dialling, but seconds later he was pacing the confines of his office, listening to Sherlock’s phone ring out. “Pick up, pick up. You mad wanker, pick_ up _!”_

 _He dismissed out of hand the possibility that he might have misplaced the drugs. He knew, somewhere in the cold centre of his stomach, where they’d gone. The only question was why. Perhaps Sherlock had only taken them for a lark, to punish Lestrade for doubting his theory. Perhaps he was off somewhere running chemical tests on the composition of the power. Or perhaps he was preparing a cocaine solution for himself to get dangerously high, and Lord Mycroft Holmes was going to have Lestrade executed for corrupting his baby brother. “Pick_ up _!”_

_“You know I prefer to text.” Sherlock leaned against the doorway to Lestrade’s office. His eyes were wide and black, his grin too bright. “Wonderful news, Lestrade. I’ve managed to secure the cooperation of a witness.”_

_Lestrade pulled Sherlock into his office and kicked the door closed. “You’re high.”_

_“I’m on_ fire _,” Sherlock corrected with a manic gleam in his eye. He went to Lestrade’s desk and picked up a file. “I need another case. I’ll bet I can solve this one in eight hours. Time me.”_

_“Where have you been?” Lestrade snatched the file folder out of his hand. “Charles. What did you do with the drugs you nicked?”_

_“I told you. I made a witness very friendly. You’re always complaining I don’t contribute to any of the boring parts of policework. But I do. I do boring things all the time, by necessity, my dull friend.” Sherlock jabbed a finger at Lestrade’s chest._

_“Charles.” Lestrade grabbed Sherlock’s arms and held them down at his sides. “Show me.”_

_As Sherlock dragged him out of the station, DI Dimmock was stepping out of the lift. He frowned at Lestrade, and spared a considering look for Sherlock. Lestrade returned a quick shake of his head, and then they were off._

_After a short drive and a brief foot chase through Fitzrovia, Lestrade was almost hopeful that Sherlock had kept all the drugs for himself—which would have been bad enough. But he should have known better than to hope that Sherlock would misremember or misrepresent the facts of a case. At last, Sherlock lead him up three flights of stairs to an unlocked flat where a blonde woman lay pale and still on a sofa._

_“She’s the sort of person I_ hate _to associate with, but when we got to chatting, she was quite forthcoming about her brother’s drug trade. I recovered the missile plans. You can say thank you.”_

_“This is Joe Harrison’s sister? Andrew West’s fiancé?”_

_“Of course.” Sherlock leaned against the arm of the sofa, looking up at Lestrade rather like a cat who’d dragged in a dead bird. “She confirmed what I suspected about-- “_

_“Shut up,” Lestrade snapped. He crouched next to the sofa and took hold of the woman’s wrist. Her pulse was very weak. He pried an eyelid open to find her pupils blown. “How much did she take?”_

_“As much as she wanted. There was plenty, and she seemed rather upset.” Sherlock held up a baggie with a trace of white powder inside. Lestrade tried to remember how much had been inside the bag that morning. “Isn’t that strange? Nothing even happened to her. She was so upset.”_

_“Her fiancé’s dead, Sherlock, and her brother’s the one killed him.” At Sherlock’s unexpected silence, he looked up to see the man still and frowning. “How much did you take?”_

_“Why would she be so upset?” He sank down in a large wing-backed chair, looking more forlorn and childlike than Lestrade had ever seen him._

_“The cocaine, Sherlock. How much?”_

_“Just enough to be polite,” Sherlock said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Street drugs are notoriously unreliable. Never know what’s pure.”_

_Lestrade grabbed his phone from his coat. As he called for medics, Sherlock rattled on about the information he’d got from his witness._

_Lestrade hung up and held the girl’s hand in both of his. His fault. He might as well have given her the overdose himself, for all his carelessness. He’d known Sherlock’s weaknesses, and he hadn’t guarded against them._

_“You’re fortunate I have the entire Imperial Rail timetable memorized,” Sherlock was saying._

_Lestrade was a practical man, but he’d failed himself in this. He had done this. He’d known he was dealing with a spoiled child with no thought for the safety of others, and Lestrade had let him in anyway. He was sworn to protect, and instead he’d brought destruction. This was all his own doing._

_Sherlock ran on and on. The drug dealers. The debt. The bloody missile plans._

_“Charles.” Lestrade stood. “Charles.” He turned to the chair where Sherlock sat. “Sherlock.” The man paused in his explanation and looked up. “You have to leave. You can’t be found here.”_

_“Nonsense. I can be found wherever I wish.” Sherlock settled back into the chair and pulled his knees to his chest._

_Something in the gesture reminded Lestrade of that girl, the slave he’d been questioning when Sherlock first barged into his crime scene. Lestrade spoke calmly, soothingly to Sherlock, the way he had to that witness. “This girl is in a bad way. You don’t want to get caught up in the inquest.” Lestrade knew how it would go. He’d seen the way the Empire treated those who failed it. Sherlock hadn’t been the one who’d sworn to uphold certain principles. He didn’t deserve to face these particular consequences. “You need to leave,” he said again. “There will be questions. Questions even you won’t be able to talk your way out of.”_

_“You as well. They’ll question you,” Sherlock countered. Then the facts seemed to catch up with him at last. “Oh.”_

_“Get_ out _, Charles.” Lights flashed outside the window. Lestrade grabbed Sherlock’s arms and pulled him bodily out of the chair. “Go on.” Sherlock took three quick steps toward the door before turning back. He looked from the girl on the sofa to Lestrade, and back to the girl. “Sherlock, go.” Lestrade put his best note of command into his voice, into the tone that had occasionally managed to make Sherlock listen. “Now, Sherlock.”_

_Sherlock ran down the back stairs and was gone. As the sirens wailed, Lestrade stayed holding the cold hand of the last witness of his last case.  
\--_


	2. Chapter 2

_  
Lestrade couldn’t say that he hadn’t considered the idea that his involvement with Sherlock would lead to the thunderous ruin of his career. But he had come to hope, recently, that Sherlock might be on the road to becoming a decent sort of man. Three years since “Charles Butler” had arrived at Lestrade’s crime scene. Almost two decades serving in the Imperial Metropolitan Police. Before that, training and ass-kissing and yes-sir-ing and studying. He felt it all dissolving behind him, a foundation swept away by the unstoppable flood of Sherlock Holmes._

_In the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles taking the girl to hospital; in the cold fluorescent light of the interrogation room at the Met, where Imperial investigators questioned him about how, exactly, his evidence had gotten into this girl’s hands; in the thin sunlight filtering through the stained glass windows at the Palace of Imperial Justice during his sentencing hearing, he watched it all come to an end._

_Justice was swift in the Empire; punishment was meted out even more swiftly for those perceived to have betrayed a position of trust in the Empire’s civil machinery. The woman whose heart had nearly stopped in that flat turned out to be the estranged daughter of Lady Sophia Harvey, whose holdings included parts of Kent and Sussex. She took a vigorous interest in encouraging the Met to clean house._

_Lestrade didn’t bother to mount a defence. He was as convinced of his guilt as any of the Imperial judges who looked down at him so contemptuously from their benches._

_The whole process took less than a week, during which Lestrade’s subconscious treated him to Sherlock’s contemptuous voice repeating over and over, “You are an idiot.” Idiot to fall prey to the lure of solving more cases more quickly. Idiot to bring a drug addict along to crime scenes. Idiot to trust a man so who clearly disdained the power his position afforded him, even as he reaped its benefits. Idiot to think he could hope to change Sherlock Holmes._

_The night after the sentencing, Dimmock stood just outside of Lestrade’s cell, and looked resolutely away. “Bribing witnesses with drugs from evidence.”_

_“You know how he is,” Lestrade said dully. He’d meant it as a joke, but Dimmock bristled._

_“ _He_ is a Lord of the Empire, and you’re a convicted traitor,” he said loudly._

_“Yes, right.” Lestrade didn’t know if there was surveillance equipment in the cell block, but he couldn’t blame Dimmock for his caution. Lestrade nodded toward the thin stack of folders under Dimmock’s arm. “Do you want to go over the outstanding case files?”_

_“Anything you say will be suspect.”_

_“Alright. But I warn you, my handwriting is absolute crap.” Lestrade managed a weak smile, which Dimmock didn’t return. Still and all, he wouldn’t have brought the files if he hadn’t been willing to be convinced. “I’d like to help, if I can.”_

_Dimmock showed Lestrade the case files, holding each one up to the bars in turn. Lestrade talked through the leads he’d been investigating while Dimmock scribbled notes in the margins. When Dimmock closed the last of the files, a wave of homesickness welled up in Lestrade: he wanted to sit at his desk once more, with its ever-evolving mountain range of paperwork, and slurp lukewarm Nescafe and feel the ache in his back from too many hours hunched over crime scene reports. He’d never see any of that—his life’s work—again._

_Dimmock tucked the folder files under his arm. He coughed into his hand. “They told me you’re being transported tomorrow.”_

_“To the Australian colony.” Lestrade nodded. The jailor had told him earlier today, with a kind of apologetic enthusiasm. “I’ve heard it’s very sunny there.”_

_“Good luck.” Dimmock stuck his hand through the bars._

_Lestrade clasped it and held on. “If you keep working with him, be careful.”_

_Dimmock nodded, and was gone. Lestrade was left alone.  
\--_

_When the officer pounded on the bars of the cell sometime after two, Lestrade sat up right away. He hadn’t been properly asleep, but rather staring into the darkness while nightmares played out in his imagination. Lestrade made himself stand. He hadn’t expected to be taken away so early. Really, he should be grateful that he wouldn’t have to suffer through the rest of the night._

_Instead of rolling open the door to his cell, the guard said, “You’ve got a visitor.”_

_A young woman with a mobile phone clutched in both hands stepped into the corridor. “You can go,” she told Lestrade’s jailor without looking up. When the man looked back and forth between the woman the Lestrade, trying to formulate a protest, she fixed him with an annoyed glare. “Bye,” she said._

_“Alright.” The guard closed the door behind him a little more quickly than was dignified._

_Lestrade waited, but the woman didn’t look up from her mobile. “Can I help you?” he asked at last._

_An amused smile appeared on the woman’s face. “Do you want to be transported?”_

_“What do you think?”_

_She glanced up at him—just a momentary flick of the eyes, really—and back at her phone. “I think a copper would have a rough time of it.”_

_“Who are you?”_

_“Two weeks in basic training for domestic slaves, then you have your pick of several suitable postings.”_

_“Excuse me?” Lestrade thought perhaps he’d missed part of the conversation, or that this woman had the wrong person._

_“If you want to stay in London, you can sign a slave contract. It’ll save you getting transported.”_

_“Who are you?”_

_“This is a courtesy, because of what you did for his brother, but it is a one-time offer.”_

_“His brother.” There was only one man of Lestrade’s acquaintance whose brother had enough influence to play fast and loose with Imperial sentencing. “Lord Holmes?”_

_“Yes, Lord Holmes. And if you’re not a complete idiot, you’ll give me your signature so I can get this paperwork filed and make the arrangements for you not to be shipped off to Australia in about four hours.”_

_“I won’t be drawn into some political game.”_

_“You’ve already been drawn in.” The woman lowered her phone to really look at Lestrade. There may even have been a trace of pity in her face. “Listen, I can promise that Lord Mycroft won’t cause you any physical harm. That’s more than I can say for the Imperial penal system. Sign here.” She pulled a tri-folded packet of papers and a silver pen from her purse, and held them through the bars._

_“Let me read what it says, at least.”_

_“Detective Inspector, I’m really quite busy. I have a dozen other things to do tonight, one of which is to escort a certain stubborn consulting detective to a rehab program, and I think you can appreciate how unpleasant of a task that will be. Sign the papers.”_

_“Maybe I’d rather be transported.”_

_The woman pulled down the high collar of her jacket to reveal a thin black choker with a bronze clasp. Lestrade could make out the initials “MH” etched into the front. “I’ve never regretted my choice.”_

_Lestrade looked down at the papers in his hand and considered a thirty-year sentence in a penal colony. Surely any torture Mycroft Holmes could devise would pale in comparison to that. He flipped to the last page, pressed the papers against the cold wall of his cell, and signed his name at the bottom.  
\--_

_“This way.” Anthea—the phone-addicted woman had a name, he’d discovered-- lead him up the stairs of the manor house. Lestrade barely had time to take in the sheer size of the façade, tawny in the fading evening light, before they were inside. Two weeks of basic training in an Imperial program to acclimate new slaves hadn’t prepared Lestrade for the reality of walking through a Lord’s household. Each step they took into the house put him further on edge, as he tried to remember the proper procedures for how to stand, where to walk, and how to react to address by a free man._

_Anthea shot him a quick look as they passed through a grand hallway with two life-sized stone lions flanking the entrance, and said, “The place is actually rather homey, in parts.”_

_“Right,” said Lestrade. Somehow, he couldn’t picture ever feeling at ease in a place like this._

_Anthea ushered him into a high-ceilinged room lined with bookshelves. “Stay here,” she said. “I’ll fetch him.” Her phone appeared in her hand, and she frowned, then looked up at Lestrade. “Just be polite.” She sped to a far door, but turned back to add, “And don’t forget to call him ‘sir,’” before disappearing._

_Lestrade stood stiffly in the middle of the room, hands clasped behind his back, and tried not to breathe too hard. He hadn’t been this nervous when he’d been waiting to be shipped off to a lifetime of manual labour. Of course, then he’d been facing what seemed like a fitting punishment for his failures. Now, he had no way of knowing this man’s plans for him._

_Lestrade paced over to the nearest bookshelf, scanning the titles idly. He could almost convince himself that he was just a guest here, or maybe that he’d come to question a witness. No matter what they’d tried to drill into him in that wretched training, it wasn’t in Lestrade’s nature to cower and shiver, waiting for his master to come pass judgement. He reminded himself firmly that for all the power Lord Mycroft might hold, including power over Lestrade’s future, he was only a man. Lestrade had faced many men, great and small in his time on the force, and had always muddled through. He wouldn’t fail to do so this time._

_“Detective Inspector,” came a voice from the far door._

_“Not anymore, am I, sir?” Lestrade turned, keeping his hands behind his back, to greet the Lord of the house. As he’d been taught, he didn’t raise his eyes to meet Lord Mycroft’s, but he did observe the firm, even cadence of his voice, the way he spoke Lestrade’s old title._

_“No, I suppose not,” Lord Mycroft slowly. “What do your friends call you?”_

_Lestrade pressed his lips together. He didn’t exactly have friends. He had colleagues and neighbours. Some classmates from the Imperial Academy who used to go out for a pint together. The man at the chippy down the street from the Yard who knew his name. No one who he was close to. “Lestrade, sir,” he said, because that’s what they’d called him at the Met._

_“May I call you Gregory?”_

_“If you like, sir,” Lestrade said, though he couldn’t detect from the tone if Lord Mycroft was merely being polite, or if he was making a joke by phrasing his decision as a request._

_“Well, Gregory. I believe, first of all, that thanks are in order.”_

_Lestrade stared at the floor under Lord Mycroft’s polished shoes, trying to determine whether he was meant to be expressing some sort of gratitude for his master’s taking the time to meet, perhaps, or maybe just for purchasing his contract and saving him from a life of hard labour._

_Lord Mycroft saved him the trouble of responding. “I want to say that I’m grateful for how you assisted my brother.” He stepped further into the room, close enough to bring his expertly-tailored grey suit into Lestrade’s line of sight. “I know Sherlock well, and I understand how... difficult he can be.”_

_Lestrade kept his eyes trained resolutely on the floor. He still had no idea how much Lord Mycroft knew about Sherlock’s activities, and he didn’t want to be the one to enlighten him._

_“You should know he wanted to speak to you, after your arrest. I advised against it. The justice system can be quite sensitive to anything it perceives as private interference. As I’m sure you know.”_

_“Yes, sir,” Lestrade said. His mind stuck on the fact that Sherlock had given him any thought at all. He hadn’t heard anything from Sherlock since the arrest, and had rather assumed he’d gone about his business as usual. He’d never struck Lestrade as a sentimental man._

_“I’ve been eager to meet you myself. My brother doesn’t often ask for help, and he’s never before done so on behalf of another.”_

_“He asked you to help me?” Lestrade looked at Lord Mycroft in disbelief. He quickly remembered himself and dropped his eyes back down to the floor, but not before seeing the polite, neutral expression on the man’s face._

_Luckily, Lord Mycroft didn’t comment on his indiscretion. “And was willing to comply with my conditions in exchange for the favour. Another unusual occurrence, as I’m sure you could guess.”_

_“Yes, sir.”_

_There was a slight pause, and Mycroft came a step closer. “How have you found the training?”_

_“Instructive, sir,” Lestrade said. And dull, and dispiriting, and humiliating, but he could hardly say any of that to the man who held his contract._

_“Well, yes,” Lord Mycroft said. “Fulfilling, would you say?”_

_“Are there people who find slavery fulfilling, sir?” Lestrade asked, a bit more sharply than he’d intended._

_“There are some who grow accustomed to it,” Lord Mycroft said. “Some, even, who find a kind of peace.”_

_“I see. Sir.” Lestrade clasped his hands more tightly behind his back. He wondered if Lord Mycroft imagined him fitting into one of those categories, or if he were the type of man who enjoyed the challenge of breaking defiant slaves._

_“I’d like to provide a proper place for you. A man of your talents and character would be wasted in menial work.”_

_Lestrade wasn’t certain whether or not to take that as a compliment, so he said nothing._

_Lord Mycroft began a slow circuit around Lestrade, as if to consider him from all angles. “I have staff working all over the Empire, of course, but a position has recently opened up in the household here.”_

_“What sort of position, sir?”_

_“Do you drink brandy?” Lord Mycroft stepped away from Lestrade, over to the hardwood liquor cabinet._

_“Can’t say it’s my favourite, sir.”_

_“I’m pleased to see two weeks of training hasn’t destroyed your capacity for independence.” While Lestrade mulled over that comment, Lord Mycroft took his time pouring two glasses. He returned and held out a snifter with a generous measure of the drink._

_Lestrade took the glass and held it gingerly, not sure of the protocol._

_“To independence,” Lord Mycroft said, holding his glass aloft._

_Lestrade did likewise, and drank when Lord Mycroft tipped back his own glass. Lestrade stole a look at the man--his impeccable dress, his carefully neutral face, the controlled way he moved--and their eyes caught for the first time as he lowered his drink. Rather than berating Lestrade for the breach of etiquette, Lord Mycroft lowered his eyes, as if he’d been the one caught out, and stared into his brandy._

_At last, Lord Mycroft said, “A man with my duties requires a retinue of attendants who can be relied upon to show a certain discretion.”_

_Lestrade examined the floor and wondered what depraved secrets Lord Mycroft might want to hide from the public eye._

_“You are valuable, Gregory Lestrade, because you have already proven your dependability.”_

_“And learned a hard lesson from it, sir,” Lestrade said. His hand curled tighter around his glass._

_“You’d not do the same again?”_

_“I didn’t do what I did out of a hope to curry favour,” Lestrade said, even as his better judgement protested. “I took responsibility for my actions, is all. If I hadn’t known Lord Sherlock was who he was, I’d’ve done the same.”_

_“I see.” Lord Mycroft unbuttoned his jacket and settled himself into one of the room’s solid, ancient-looking arm chairs._

_Lestrade, prevented from protocol by remaining standing as he’d prefer, perched on the closest high-backed sofa._

_Lord Mycroft sipped at his brandy. “The open position here is that of my personal slave.”_

_“Personal.”_

_“I have an assistant who handles the details of my daily schedule, and a host of others who manage the household, of course. A man in my position, however, fulfils certain social functions for which a personal slave can provide certain convenience.”_

_“Oh,” said Lestrade. Social functions. Personal slave. Convenience. Lestrade held no illusions about the duties of a personal slave, but to hear Lord Mycroft explain the matter in such civil terms made the concept almost palatable. “That sort of thing isn’t really my skill set.”_

_Lord Mycroft ran a finger along the rim of his glass. “I find that difficult to believe.”_

_A bright burst of anger flashed through Lestrade. “I did not sleep with your brother to secure his help. Nor did I whore myself out at the Met to get my commission. I may not have noble blood or connections, but it _is_ possible to rise in the Empire by hard work.” He swallowed hard against all else he might have said, and added a token, “Sir.”_

_Lord Mycroft’s eyes had widened as Lestrade spoke, and now his face displayed the closest thing to an expression Lestrade had yet seen on him. Lestrade quickly dropped his eyes back down, and clenched his hands into fists, cursing his temper._

_After a moment, Lord Mycroft said, “My apologies. I only meant that I’d observed your behaviour to include many of the necessary social graces for the position. That is all.” He took another sip of his drink, then stared into the amber liquid thoughtfully. “Although I am gratified for the confirmation that you’ve not slept with Sherlock. For one thing, all reports indicate that he’s a very selfish lover.”_

_A strangled chuckle, which could have been amusement or despair, danced free from Lestrade._

_“Yes, well,” Lord Mycroft said. A stolen glance confirmed the beginnings of a smile on his face. “We would, of course, negotiate any duties of an intimate nature you might be expected to perform. In public, the role of a personal slave is largely ceremonial. In private, I have no interest in asserting myself where I’m not wanted. I have enough of power struggles in the daylight hours.” He stood, set his glass down on the end table, and buttoned his suit jacket. “Now. If you’ve no interest in me, say so, and I’ll see that you’re comfortably positioned elsewhere.”_

_“What do you mean by interest in you?” Lestrade asked. It seemed an odd way to phrase a question to a slave whose future Lord Mycroft could freely control._

_“There’s no need to downplay your detective skills, Gregory. I understand you had a respectable rate of case closure long before you fell in with my brother.” Lord Mycroft straightened his back and let his arms hang at his sides. “Go on. Make what observations you will.”_

_Tentatively, Lestrade raised his eyes. When no rebuke came, he examined Lord Mycroft’s expression, but could read only polite neutrality. Anything could be behind that cold mask. Lord Mycroft hadn’t a reputation for wanton cruelty, but then again a Lord of his stature could easily arrange to conceal any unpopular proclivities. He could just as easily be bluffing about providing a viable alternative if Lestrade refused him._

_Lestrade looked his fill; the man bore it without complaint. Lestrade considered himself competent, perhaps even expert, at judging men’s characters; the skill had served him well through years of dealing with desperate criminals, nervous suspects, and ambitious colleagues. He hadn’t the preternatural talent for analysis Sherlock had displayed, but he did well enough for a commoner. Everything about Lord Mycroft’s conduct spoke to carefully honed manners. The question, then, if it matched the rest of the man’s demeanour, may have been meant as politely as it sounded: the stodgy Imperial Lord equivalent of, “Do you fancy me?” delivered the only way such a question could be under the circumstances._

_“You could have any slave in the territory,” Lestrade pointed out._

_“Yes.” Lord Mycroft returned his look as coolly as before._

_“Are you sure you wouldn’t be better pleased by one of them?” Lestrade asked, just to be certain he’d gotten the man’s meaning._

_“I haven’t made my offer lightly, Gregory.”_

_“Alright,” Lestrade said. He paused, waiting until a slight thinning of Lord Mycroft’s lips proclaimed his impatience. In the midst of his carefully controlled stillness, the change of expression heralded his state as loudly as an anxiously shouted, “Well?” would have done. Lestrade knew, then, that he understood the fundamental truth of the man. “I accept.”_  
\--

“And after dinner, then what?” Lestrade asked.

“Drinks and cigars, if he deigns to stick around,” John answered. He hooked his thumb toward the door that led from the banqueting hall to the smoking room. “Kneel on the left side of the chair.”

“And the drinks?”

“Not my job. House slaves serve in the billiard room.”

“Good.” Lestrade nodded. “When in doubt, stay two steps behind him wherever he goes, and kneel when he sits. If he tells you to do something that sounds like a terrible idea, tell him to get bent. Discreetly.”

“Ha ha. Thanks.” John folded his arms on the banquet table before him and shook his head. “I hope it won’t come to that. He did promise to behave.”

“He wouldn’t have promised if he didn’t at least mean to make an effort,” Lestrade said.

“How much of an effort is a matter of chance,” came a new voice from the doorway.

“Lord Mycroft.” Lestrade stood, and John followed his example. “I was just reviewing some procedures with John for Thursday’s banquet.”

“Carry on.” Mycroft waved a hand at them and went to the head of the table. Lestrade hurried over to pull out his chair for him. Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “We’re not in company yet, Gregory.”

“I know, sir. I’m just demonstrating.” As Mycroft settled himself, Lestrade caught sight of the topmost paper in the stack his master held: a photo clipped to a dossier, with a seat number written neatly across the top. “Studying the attendees?”

“Anthea insisted. We’ll have a full house. The young prince has requested dancing.”

“The young prince is coming?” Lestrade asked at the same time as John said, “Dancing?”

Mycroft continued studying his papers and didn’t seem inclined to share any more information about the guest list, so Lestrade turned back to John. “Right. Do you dance?”

“Dance in what sense?” John asked slowly.

“Courtly dancing,” Lestrade said with a vague wave of his hand meant to encompass his feelings on the matter. “Mostly it’s a traditional ballroom style, though the old timers like to throw in a few formal promenades and such.”

“Then no,” John said. “Not at all.”

“That’s no matter. I didn’t know how to dance at all when I came here. Sally gave me lessons for weeks. I was a mess. I’ve improved.”

“Don’t...?” John shot a look toward Mycroft, as if unsure how freely he could speak. He lowered his voice a bit to say, “I thought Lords danced with equals.”

“It’ll be about half and half, I imagine. Some of the masters like to show off their slaves. What’s the fun in having expensive arm candy if you don’t get to parade it around the dance floor?”

John’s expression was becoming more alarmed by the minute. “Will I be expected to...?”

“Sherlock should take at least one dance with you, John,” Mycroft said without looking up. “The guests will be curious about his new acquisition, and dancing is an easy way to show off without having to engage them in conversation.”

John looked pained.

“Perhaps we can teach you something simple in the next few days,” Lestrade offered quickly, before Mycroft could start arranging a dance tutor for John or suggesting dance review drills for the entire slave contingent. “The waltz, perhaps?” At John’s miserable shrug, he said, “Come on, John, you have to have danced at a friend’s wedding or sommat. Anything?”

“Harry’s wedding wasn’t really about promenades and foxtrots. More like uncontrolled drunken gyrations.” John spread his hands helplessly. “I’m not one for social graces, I fear.”

“Neither was I, when I first arrived. Waltzing is fairly simple. Lord Sherlock knows how to lead; it’s just a matter of following and keeping the rhythm. Come on.” Lestrade removed himself to the open area at the far end of the room, where the thick rug gave way to polished hardwood. He turned and beckoned to John.

“Is this really necessary?” John muttered as he closed the distance between them.

“Would you prefer Sherlock to teach you?”

“No,” John said quickly.

“Alright then,” Lestrade nodded. “Hang on, it’s been a while since I’ve lead.” He placed John’s left hand on his shoulder, and gripped his other hand. “There, alright. The waltz is based on a three beat structure. Now, we’re going to trace the shape of an ‘L.’ You’ll step back with your right foot, then to the left with your left foot. And feet together. Okay, forward with your left foot, forward and right with your right foot, and feet together.”

“Marching drills are easier,” John muttered.

“We’ll go slowly. Come on, then. Back on right, left, together, forward on left, right, together.” 

Lestrade tried to provide some guidance with his hand on John’s back, but he didn’t seem to be doing much good. John stumbled in a vaguely square pattern. They came to a halt with near-identical rueful expressions.

“Sorry,” Lestrade said. “I’ve never actually tried to teach anyone this.” 

Lestrade felt a hand squeeze his shoulder. “Perhaps a demonstration?” Mycroft asked. 

“Oh,” Lestrade said. “Yes, alright.” He released his hold on John, and turned to extend his hand.   
John stepped away from them as Mycroft arranged himself comfortably against Lestrade.

“And one, two, three.” Mycroft guided Lestrade in the right direction as he continued counting, and they began to move. With the gentle pressure of Mycroft’s hands on him, Lestrade found his feet moving easily in the pattern they’d been taught. 

Mycroft kept the pace slow, turning them in an easy circle around the open space. “You see, John,” he said, without taking his attention from Lestrade. “It’s quite easy when you trust your partner to guide you.” 

“Well,” Lestrade added. “Assuming your partner knows what he’s doing.”

“Yes,” Mycroft glided to a stop near the centre of the space with Lestrade still held tight in his arms. “An important caveat.” 

“Yes, right then.” John retreated from them with slow, even steps. “I think I’ve got the idea. I’ll just...” With that, John slid out the door of the banqueting hall.

Lestrade spared a glance over his shoulder for his escaped friend. “I think you may have scared-- “

Mycroft cut him off with a swift, firm kiss. He held Lestrade there for only the space of a moment, then took two quick steps back, away from him. “I apologize.” He ran a hand over the front of his jacket to smooth invisible wrinkles. “I shouldn’t have interrupted you and John.”

Lestrade stepped toward him, but Mycroft was already moving, walking back to his seat at the head table. “You’ve been very kind to John,” he said.

Lestrade suppressed a sigh. He followed Mycroft as far as the table, and leaned back against it as his master took up his stack of papers again. “He’s a decent bloke,” Lestrade said. “And besides, it is my job to keep the personal slaves up to house standards. Hardly do to have a shoddy dancer in the bunch. Shoddier than me, I mean.”

“Hm, yes,” Mycroft said absently. His eyes were focused on the papers in his hands, but his attention was clearly elsewhere. 

Lestrade had long since given up on trying to track the quicksilver course of Mycroft’s thoughts when they wandered. Instead, he stayed where he was, waiting for Mycroft to decide what he wanted to say. He could be patient.

After several minutes, Mycroft said, “It cannot be easy for you to be under the same roof as my brother.”

Tension grabbed and held Lestrade’s body as Mycroft’s meaning sunk in. He didn’t like to speculate on what his master knew of his past, but he’d learned, in his years in Mycroft’s service, that there was little information to which the man was not privy. The thought of Sherlock’s presence recalling to Mycroft Lestrade’s own past failures stirred a rush of shame. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “That’s long past.” He thought--hoped, even--that perhaps Lord Sherlock had forgotten the experience.

“All the same, he’ll not have to stay much longer,” Mycroft said. He tapped the stack of papers on the table to straighten them. “There’s one thing I must do, then he’ll be allowed to slip his leash. He’s been clamouring for a flat in London.”

Lestrade left off his own worries to sort the sense of Mycroft’s statement. “What one thing?” he asked.

“It’s not important right now,” Mycroft said, just a hair too quickly. Anyone else might not have noticed, but Lestrade had listened too often to Mycroft’s prevarications to mistake this one for truth.

“Alright,” Lestrade said. He didn’t enjoy being shut out of Mycroft’s business, but he’d become used to the necessity over the years. “Here.” He sat down in the chair at Mycroft’s right and tugged the stack of papers out of his hands. “Let me help.”

“Anthea will quiz me on the guest list regardless,” Mycroft said, showing the barest of amused smiles.

“Probably,” said Lestrade. “But Anthea doesn’t reward you for high marks, does she?”

“No,” Mycroft said slowly. He leaned back in his chair. “There’s a reward involved?”

“Only for high marks, I said. Let’s begin.” Lestrade spread the photos in his hands like cards. “Who’s seated at the far end?”

As Mycroft ran through his litany of guests, the echo of his words circled Lestrade’s mind, wearing a worrying path: “there’s one thing I must do.” He’d been talking about Lord Sherlock, but the conversation had started with John Watson. Though he knew it was probably futile, Lestrade ran through his recollection of the scene, speculating on what Mycroft might have noticed to set his mind to planning. One thought caught hold of him and gnawed insidiously at him until he could hardly concentrate on the guest dossiers he held.

“Next is Lady Grantham,” Mycroft was saying. “She’s on-- “

“Sir.”

“Hm?”

Lestrade spoke his mind quickly, before he could convince himself he’d been mistaken. “I think John’s a good influence on Lord Sherlock. There’s no reason to separate them.”

“Is that what you think I intend to do?”

“He’s a war veteran,” Lestrade pointed out. “It’s good for Lord Sherlock’s image to have a war veteran on his arm. He may not fit the traditional mould for a personal slave, but he’s a fast learner, and has a good deal more respect for law and protocol than some people I can name.”

Mycroft stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “You don’t need to convince me of John Watson’s worth, Gregory. I’ve no thought of trying to separate him from my brother.”

“No?” He asked. Mycroft’s indulgent smile appeased him. He didn’t know why the idea had nettled him so, but he felt a palpable sense of relief at Mycroft’s denial. He realized he’d been leaning forward in his chair, and he took the logical next step, sliding to his knees so he could lean his cheek against Mycroft’s thigh. “Alright. Good, then.”

“You’re concerned about his well-being,” Mycroft said slowly. “Not only that, you’re concerned for Sherlock’s well-being.”

“‘Course.”

Mycroft’s hand came to rest on the back of his neck. “Gregory, there’s something in you that exceeds even my understanding.”

Lestrade smiled against the smooth fabric of Mycroft’s trousers. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Sir?” Anthea appeared in the near doorway, gripping the door frame with one hand and texting furiously with the other. “We need to move up your meeting with Lord Poole. There’s a situation with the new colonies on which Her Eminence would like your input. I’ve set up a call, four o’clock sharp.” She glanced up, and her thumb paused momentarily over the keypad when she saw them together. “Are you at liberty, sir?”

“Right away.” Mycroft traced his hand around to tip up Lestrade’s chin and look him in the eye. “Soon. You’ll know soon enough,” he said quietly. He stood and followed Anthea.

Lestrade stayed where he was and rested his forehead against Mycroft’s empty chair. He let himself stay a moment, then pushed himself to his feet. There was work to be done. 

He gathered the papers Mycroft had left, and settled with them at a chair along the side of the table. He’d need to know the names of the guests as well, if his observations were to be of any use to his master. 

Lestrade muttered each name to himself as he looked at the photos. “Lord Dixon, Lady Moore, Lady Price, Colonel Moran.” When Mycroft needed him, he’d be ready.


End file.
